


Reality Check

by nothandlingit



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5016823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothandlingit/pseuds/nothandlingit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She remembers the way he’d lit up her whole life on her birthday, how he’d clung to her when she’d needed him, offered solace when she had nowhere else to go. And, as selfish as it is, he may not need her, but she damn well needs him. Keenler, post 3x03</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reality Check

**Author's Note:**

> Well this season is properly ruining me. And I love it. Haven’t felt inspiration for these two strike in a while, so hopefully this is still up to standard :) Set after 3x03.

“Don’t hang up.”

She hears his breath catch, “Keen.”

“Please, listen.”

His silence is deafening and she tries to imagine the complex emotions he must be trying to categorise right now, but this is a moment she needs to exploit. She needs him to hear her out and if catching him off guard is the only way to do that, she will.

Without waiting for an answer, she continues, “You know I’m innocent.”

There’s a long pause, then, “Do I?”

“Ressler, please.”

There’s a creaking through the phone and she wonders if he’s leaning back in his work chair or in the comfort of one of his recliners. She’d like to hope he still goes home.

He sighs, “What do you want, Liz?”

There’s resignation in his tone that suggests his walls are lowered because of a drink or two. God, she hopes he’s not using again and briefly considers simply hanging up the phone. He doesn’t need this, doesn’t need her complications and her baggage. He doesn’t need to be pulled under the rip tides with her – doesn’t need to drown for a lost cause.

But then she remembers the way he’d lit up her whole life on her birthday, how he’d clung to her when she’d needed him, offered solace when she had nowhere else to go. And, as selfish as it is, he may not need her, but she damn well needs him.

“My friend.”

She holds her breath waiting for his answer. If there is one. He could hang up and she wouldn’t even question it.

But he holds the line, his sharp breaths the only indication that he’s still listening to her. It’s almost a nod. Or, at least, she imagines it to be.

“I shot a cop today.”

At this, he does react, “I know.”

Of course he does. He’s her partner. Her partner is intuitive and clever and _of course_ he knows. What she doesn’t expect is for him to comment on it, to put it in perspective for her.

“He’s alive.”

She swallows the lump in her throat, pushing back the tears in her eyes because, _fuck,_ she didn’t know how much she needed to know that. Whispering, “Thank you,” is all she can muster, but it feels like it always had with them. His news feels like the embrace she’s been missing, the cold beer and hot pizza and mindless TV they’d watched to unwind when her biggest problem was Tom.

There is a long moment when they simply breathe into the phone and Liz is almost certain that he must be at home because there’s the faint sounds of a commentator in the background. Probably the football. It seems so mundane, so normal, so… unattainable.

“Do you trust him?”

It comes out of nowhere and takes her a couple of seconds to catch up. When she realises he’s talking about Red, she twists in her seat to give herself an extra second to think. “I don’t know,” she answers honestly, “But he’s keeping me alive.”

The background noise fades and she hears his footsteps pad through his apartment – he is _definitely_ at home and she’s so glad. The sound of a fridge opening and closing lets her know he’s getting another beer and she feels better about her earlier assessment of the openness of his voice – he’s just a few drinks in, not a few pills in.

“You tell him to keep on doing that.”

She almost smiles, “Well, you can’t catch me dead.”

There’s a stillness on the other end and she wonders if he’s paused in shock of her nonchalant manner or realisation that her dying is a very real possibilty. “No, Keen, I would certainly rather not.”

They’ve never been really forthcoming with their emotions, either of them, choosing to play their cards close to their chest and save blatant care for desperate circumstances. But that, right there, is him saying he misses her and, it doesn’t matter how much she tries to hate him for coming after her, she misses him too.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Mmhmm,” he hums as he takes a sip of his beer.

She bites her lip and steels herself for this confession, “All I could think about, as we were getting this guy – the cop – to the hospital, was you. You and your bullet proof vest and determination.”

“Keen-”

“No, let me… Just… I need to tell you this.”

Again, it’s like she can hear his nod through the phone, “I owe you my life a hundred times over, but I can’t repay you if I kill you.”

“You won’t.”

“I didn’t even know I pulled the trigger today until it was too late. My fight and flight instincts are all messed up and I’m not in control and I don’t want to hurt you.”

She can feel that lump in her throat again and she knows it’s going to all come to a head soon, that she’s going to start crying and not be able to stop until she’s broken and sore and gasping for air. She swallows and waits a moment, hoping for it to pass, hoping for Ressler to speak.

It’s like he reads her mind, “You can’t accept this as your reality.”

And it’s the fact that he’s so _different_ to Reddington that really pushes her over the edge, the first tears leaving wet trails down her cheeks as she tries to not let on that she’s such a mess.

Tries and, with a sniff, fails.

“Liz?”

She nods, “Yeah.”

There’s some shuffling on his end, the sound of springs creaking, and she realises that he’s taken her to his bedroom. It shouldn’t _feel_ more intimate and, yet, it does. It terrifies her.

“I know you’re innocent.”

She lets out a shaky breath and feels the knots in the pit of her stomach loosen just a little as her tears fall freely now.

Without answering, she pulls the phone from her ear and presses the ‘end’ button before throwing the device to the floor of whoever’s house they’ve found themselves in tonight. She can’t continue to miss him, can’t keep thinking that it’s okay to call. He’s under her skin and she doesn’t know how to shake him.

Curling her arms around her legs and resting her head on her knees, she tells herself that she’s allowed five minutes to break down, only five.

But, when Red comes to find her at daybreak, to move them to their next safe house, to continue to play cat and mouse with her partner, she still hasn’t moved. Ressler’s words bounce around and around her mind, twisting and turning but always coming back to the same conclusion – she is unwilling to accept her reality just quite yet.


End file.
